That’s all I ask of you
A gala of hit songs from musical theatre is top billing at our local concert hall this evening. The set list is popular, sentimental and romantic. The soloists are young, good looking and impressive singers. It promises to be an enchanted evening. And it is. The hits are belted out, the clichéd words of hope and love and promises of a better day ringing out clear and true. The young lady soloist is beautiful in her fairy princess gown. You can hear the little girls in the audience sighing as she takes centre stage. She sings beautiful ballads of love and loneliness, stirring songs of strength and self. The audience falls in love with her. The young tenor with a goatee beard clutches his wavy locks somewhat dramatically as he sings the great anthems we know so well. His voice convinces the audience of faith lost and found, love surmounting the odds and eternal hope. The wind section, the xylophone and the chimes have their ta-daa moments. The lights are dimmed, that gorgeous starburst chandelier hanging from the ceiling shimmers and seems to sway with the music of the night. This is such a welcome change from the usual heavy bill of fare in this concert hall. Bach and Brahms are forgotten, Tchaikovsky and Beethoven will be back next week. Tonight is all about Bernstein and Rice, Rodgers and Webber.
Early on in the concert, there is a small distraction in our block. Two rows ahead of us sits a couple. Tall and thin, elderly, dignified, they resemble each other in the way siblings do or people who have loved each other for a very long time. At first, they are unremarkable, just two people enjoying an evening out, the man solicitous of his companion. But then the lady suddenly becomes agitated, either affected by the singing or by the sudden appearance of a stranger who arrives late and noisily occupies the seat next to her. The gentleman with her pacifies her but she grows increasingly distraught. Clearly, there is more to this agitation than capricious nerves. Once or twice, she even attempts to leave her seat. The man calmly coaxes her to sit back down. She continues to twist in her seat, sometimes glaring at the young girls seated behind her, at other times smiling vaguely at presumed acquaintances. This crowd is made up of the usual suspects – everyone knows everyone, or at least, recognises familiar faces. Yet, her smiles and nods midway through songs are left unacknowledged by the well behaved audience. In the middle of the last song before the intermission, she abruptly leaves her seat and makes her shaky way to the door. Her companion’s face sinks into his hand for a brief second and he slumps in defeat. He sits there, body taut, as if hoping that the moment might pass unnoticed. But the instinct to guard and defend a lifelong companion is too strong. He reluctantly raises his eyes to watch her progress.
She stops in the aisle and greets someone. She carries on a one-sided conversation for perhaps thirty seconds before the man leaps up, hurries forward and holding her by the waist, gently propels her to the exit.
As we mingle with the crowd in the intermission, greeting friends and discussing the music, I see the couple again. They are arguing, him in a calm, soothing way, her voice slowly unravelling and climbing as he leads her to the elevators. They don’t resume their seats for the second half of the concert.
In an evening of wonderful music, music written to extol love, its eternal promise, music that speaks of defiance and rebellion or even of self discovery and new found respect, this interlude moves me deeply.
I imagine the hope with which he buys the tickets. This must be the kind of music she enjoyed and still enjoys. Perhaps he prays for a rare evening spent together, as they did in the past years, an evening of love and music, untroubled by the demons that are now her faithful companions. The evening has started off on a promising note. He relaxes, settles back in his seat to enjoy himself. This is a much needed break from the grinding routine of their lives. A short respite from the helpless uncertainty. He allows himself a small smile, the only hint of the pleasure he feels in her company.
I try and fail to fully imagine her state of mind. Everything is familiar – this hall, these people, that stage. At first, she breathes deeply and concentrates on her companion and the beautiful songs. She can do this. But then this man, this stranger, drops down in the seat next to her. Who is he, why does he sit so threateningly close, does he mean to harm her? She slowly begins to lose her way, the voices in her head becoming louder, drowning out the music. Has she heard these songs before? Who are these people who stare at her so? She must leave now. Escape. The walls loom over her, the notes of the music are jangling and discordant. She jumps to her feet.
I try hard not to imagine his despair. The promise is broken. They will no longer grow old together, bickering companions, lovers of a lifetime, supporting and comforting one another to the end of their lives. Instead, she has returned to a place only she remembers, in her childhood, a safe place he has no memory of. He is a father again, this time to a wilful, obstinate and recalcitrant child. He has no wish to play this part, no energy left at the end of his days to cope with the struggle of the ending of hers. He whispers in the dead hours, I can’t do this. I don’t want to do this. There is no one to hear. And every morning, he steels himself for another day of acrimony and hurtful words she won’t remember hurling at him. Another night of restless sleep or pained wakefulness. This woman who has become a stranger. Who often stares at him in loathing and fear. Her jailer, her carer, once her lover and best friend.
All the words of all the love songs ever written seem to mock this man and this woman. All the happily ever afters, finding true love and forevers are arrows that find their mark. I can’t stop thinking about them. I hold my husband’s hand just a little tighter in that concert hall.
But now a day has passed. As I write their story from my imagination, I see that I am so wrong. The love songs are exactly about them. His hand on her waist, the lightest touch so as not to alarm her. The slight leaning of her body into his. Though her mind is abandoning her, her body still remembers that she has long ago placed her trust and faith in this man. That will perhaps remain until the last. He hides his despair and shows the world a brave face for her sake. This is my woman, he declares silently, I love her and although she does not remember, she loves me. Here we are, still together. That is enough to face another day.
And the magic is restored, renewed, complete with a pair of unlikely lovers. That’s all I ask of you, the singers duet on stage. What do we ask of each other when it comes down to the hard times? Love and trust, faith and hope. In that little interlude of a man and a woman, are all the beautiful emotions that we listen for in great love songs but rarely see with our eyes and hearts.